The Devil is in Assumptions
by deaserkan
Summary: Nick/Gastby SLASH What if Nick wasn't 'the perfect narrator' after all? What if he believed that his neighbor Jay Gatsby was seeking a romantic connection with him, and not his alluring cousin, Daisy. Well, he would tell to you: The Devil is in Assumptions.
1. Prologue of Recollections

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Great Gatsby. I receive no money, only the gifts in the form of compliments.

**A/N:** _I do not claim to portray an exact characterization of Nick Caraway. I try my hardest, but my own personality is inevitably entwined with his thoughts and words of this creation of mine._

_F. Scott Fitzgerald created him to be a perfect narrator: tolerant and open minded. But I like to think he has feelings that he can't control like all of us. He still remains a character that all love to confess things to, but I delve deeper into Nick rather than the story you have already read: The Great Gatsby._

_In the perspective of Nick Caraway:_

When I traveled to New York, I entertained myself with wild ideas of my life being swept up into fame and fortune.

I imagined myself living in a luxurious place, different than what I had lived and grown accustomed to. I pictured a life that was in stark contrast from the previous: men and women surrounding me with praise, owning fabulous and frivolous things, filled with much gayety and laughter.

It is not unusual for one to want such things from time to time, however, when put into context it's almost enough to make one sick.

That is just what I felt after all this time at my neighbor Gatsby's house. I call it a house, for it is certainly not a _home_.

Try as I might, I have no doubt my face exposed my feelings as I watched young girls and men arm in arm stumbling over but blades of grass and spraying spittle as they drank deeply from their glasses filled with a commonplace poison.

I could not keep the slump of my shoulders away as saw women gossiping, undoubtedly, horrid things of their peers. Their frantic whispers into each other's ears could be mistaken for passion, if it were not for their pointing fingers and snarling laughter.

I tried uselessly to keep the blood from rushing to my cheeks when I spotted a couple (of whatever genders) embracing passionately. (It also took a beat for my eyes to be torn from such lurid scenes.)

The worst enemy of all I had to fight against was my own treacherous feelings. My heart which I had been feeding for months with the hope of companionship, with the want of love, and the assumption of such feelings being returned; is now an organ that struggles to beat with the sorrow that smothers it.

Such despair! Such a feeling of betrayal! And I can blame no one but myself.

Such feelings, all of them listed above this, though can be blamed on one person. My most factitious neighbor: Jay Gatsby.


	2. Hello New York

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Great Gatsby. I receive no money, only the gifts in the form of compliments.

**A/N:** Hope you are all having a lovely evening. Enjoy.

**Chapter One**

_Hello New York_

After I arrived in New York, and made my way through a few obstacles, I found myself in West Egg. It was the summer of 1922, and I had aspirations of putting my foot into the bond business.

My rented house was quite lovely for the price. While it wasn't the grandest, it suited my needs perfectly.

It wasn't long till I wished for company, thus I set out to see one of my cousins that also lived in New York. Her name, was Daisy Buchanan.

It was very hot when I departed to meet my dear cousin (Memories which I possess of her were playful and brought small smiles to my lips from time to time.)

When I arrived I was greeted by Tom Buchanan: one of my peers at Yale who now, was Daisy's husband.

"Nick." He greeted in his tight riding trousers. He had a stern brow, the look in his eyes was fierce as if he wished to dominate me. I took his hand albeit reluctantly.

"Nice to see you again Tom." I smiled.

After a few words we went into the house. I was nervous of seeing my cousin again I must admit. And her greeting showed that she had changed little.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She said. A playful mocking girl, and her guest it seemed was not willing to associate with me until dinner.

When I left after dinner (with plans to be with them the next day) I felt an urge to know them more mixed with a touch of illness from witnessing their grown characters.

As I found my house that night, I saw a handsome young man. He looked as if consumed by passion, staring off and reaching towards the other side of the bay (East Egg), where I had just come from.

I my dreams that night I remembered, were bathed in green light.

The next day reader, was eventful and full of shameful activities in which I cannot bare to describe fully for you.

We (Tom Buchanan and I) rode the train down to see 'Tom's girl.' Understand that I did not want to join Tom that day. I had no desire to meet the woman my cousin's Husband desired; the whole thing perturbed, but did not surprise me.

After hours of only her and Tom's presence, I developed a bitter and sarcastic mood. I was elated to be joined with other company at their small party, even if they were all gossiping bigots (Excuse my frankness.)

I drank heavily that night, for my mind was eager to be put away.

I woke at 4 AM and fled Mr. Mckee's bed for fear of the discovery of my true nature. It took the whole train ride to rid myself of a horrible anxiousness.

A few days passed, thankfully, with out eventfulness.

My entertainments (of wealth and fame) were still lingering in my mind and they were soon awed after settling in my new life.

A chauffer employed by my neighbor came to my house bearing an invitation.

Gatsby (my neighbor) I learned was a celebrity among the 'Eggers', and even beyond West and East Egg.

The main reason for that was he would throw elaborate parties most every weekend. I gathered this information from Daisy's guest: Miss Baker.

I looked at my invitation, and my thoughts exploded with scenes of wild dancers, loud music, and the approving face the neighbor I would soon meet.


	3. Self Absorption's Jumping of Conclusions

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Great Gatsby. I receive no money, only the gifts in the form of compliments.

**A/N:**

**Glamour **| glamər | (also **glamor**)

_Noun_

The attractive or exciting quality that makes certain people or things seem appealing or special: _the glamour of Monte Carlo_ | [as adj.] _the glamour days of old Hollywood._

• Beauty or charm that is sexually attractive: _George had none of his brother's glamour._

• Enchantment; magic: _that maiden made by glamour our of flowers._

**Chapter Two**

_Self-Absorption's Jumping of Conclusions_

I made my way over to Gatsby's house, while I was on time; the party was already in full swing. Every detail of the event, it seemed, was examined and everything was extraordinary.

I followed the colored lights, which lit the darkness brilliantly. There was a slight hesitation in my step as I scanned around for the proud host.

I found only people who looked at me with incredulity as if wondering why I even cared to find him.

It took only a short time for me to take up residence at the bar, and the sole reason of my continuing sobriety was Miss Jordan Baker.

Seeing her come out of the house, I called to her, not wanting to be a lone sheep amongst this large pack of wolves.

I found out shortly from two rather drunk ladies in yellow dresses that Jordan had lost in the golf tournament.

It was then we started to talk of my neighbor.

Those in my company said that Gatsby had sent one of the girls a new dress; that he'd been a German spy in the war; and that he even killed a man.

Oh the mystery and thrill he sounded to be! I felt like one of the ladies while listening.

I then learnt that most no one had been invited to Gatsby's parties. I was the sole guest that Gatsby had deliberately sent for.

I admit to you dear reader, that I flushed with pleasure at the information. I covered my lips with a kerchief for fear that I would smile.

For a moment, I became slightly disturbed. I had done nothing to deserve such an invitation. Might this be something sinister?

I shook the thought away, giving a valid reason: his want of greeting his new neighbor.

Miss Baker and I made our way outside and sat at a table with a man about my age and girl who laughed constantly.

"Your face is familiar…weren't you in the Third Division during the war?" The man said to me.

I started: surprised that he would recognize me (A division has a great number of people) and I did not recognize him.

"Yes." I answered and he replied; saying he'd seen me.

After some conversation I became quite content with his company at the party. He asked me to go with him to try out his hydroplane the next morning.

We chose a time then Jordan asked me: "Having a gay time now?" with a smirk.

I replied honestly, then explained to my new friend: "This is an unusual party for me. I haven't even seen the host. I live over there…and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffer with an invitation."

The man's lips parted and quirked a brow. There was a moment, then: "I'm Gatsby."

I started, my thoughts swirling. "What!" _'This man is Gatsby?' _I thought. _'He is nothing what I imagined.' _I remembered myself. "I beg your pardon." I said.

"I thought you knew, old sport. I'm afraid I'm not a very good host."

'He smiled understandingly — much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished'

My head filled with questions for him, but the next moment a butler stole him away. He left us with: "If you need anything just ask for it, old sport."

I sat there stunned. The eerie feeling I had before returned at full force. This man summoned me here, knew me, had known me before I arrived and remembered me. It was all very unsettling. I flushed at a stray thought that he may be in love with me, watching me from afar for years.

I turned to Jordan, no doubt with a fierce look upon my face, and demanded she tell me whom this Gatsby was.

She answered me simply: "He's just a man named Gatsby." It was most frustrating.

I turned with a soft huff to the orchestra, which announced that it would be playing "Jazz History of the World" at Gatsby's request.

I quirked a brow, I had gone to a performance not long ago and heard this very song. I looked towards Gatsby sharply (I swear that I saw him look away from me quickly.) but he wasn't looking at me. He was observing his party.

I took the moment to look at him: 'His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about him.'

Then Jordan was summoned to see Mr. Gatsby. Feeling a little left out, I thought then my assumptions could not be correct for he would want to be in my presence as well. But then I realized: He must be talking about me to Miss Baker!

I flushed, and frowned. His actions were a little frightening: giving me, a nobody, so much attention.

I entertained myself with thoughts of dramatic events including him as I waited for Jordan Baker to come out of the room she and Gatsby inhabited.

When she did come out, she had the gall to 'tantalize' me with information she swore not to give. I was beginning to dislike her as she left in a daze.

I made my way over to Gatsby who was surrounded by his die-hard fans eager to say goodbye yet not leave.

"I apologize again for not knowing you out in the gardens." I offered a sheepish smile of the lips.

A soothing smile and a twinkle in his eyes appeared "Don't mention it." He said automatically. "Don't give it another thought, old sport."

My brow twitched at the nickname. It sounded too familiar to be given to me.

I nodded to him, and he then reached out to me.

His warm and graceful hand brushed my shoulder. An involuntary shudder ran through me.

He again had a phone call, he bid me goodnight twice. As he turned away he looked into my eyes for as long as his neck would allow him.

That night as I lay in my bed, I could not put an end to the thoughts and scenarios that all consisted of this Jay Gatsby.


End file.
